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There is a cloud of doubt resting on a few of the tales, which it may behonest to mention, though they were far too beautiful not to tell. These are thedetails of the Gallic occupation of Rome, the Legend of St. Genevieve, theLetter of Gertrude von der Wart, the stories of the Keys of Calais, of theDragon of Rhodes, and we fear we must add, both Nelson's plan of the Battle ofthe Nile, and likewise the exact form of the heroism of young Casabianca, ofwhich no two accounts agree. But it was not possible to give up such stories asthese, and the thread of truth there must be in them has developed into such abeautiful tissue, that even if unsubstantial when tested, it is surelydelightful to contemplate.

Some stories have been passed over as too devoid of foundation, in especialthat of young Henri, Duke of Nemours, who, at ten years old, was said to havebeen hung up with his little brother of eight in one of Louis XI's cages atLoches, with orders that two of the children's teeth should daily be pulled outand brought to the king. The elder child was said to have insisted on giving thewhole supply of teeth, so as to save his brother; but though they were certainlyimprisoned after their father's execution, they were released after Louis'sdeath in a condition which disproves this atrocity.

The Indian mutiny might likewise have supplied glorious instances ofChristian self-devotion, but want of materials has compelled us to stop short ofrecording those noble deeds by which delicate women and light-hearted youngsoldiers showed, that in the hour of need there was not wanting to them thehighest and deepest 'spirit of self-sacrifice.'

At some risk of prolixity, enough of the surrounding events has in generalbeen given to make the situation comprehensible, even without knowledge of thegeneral history. This has been done in the hope that these extracts may serve asa mother's storehouse for reading aloud to her boys, or that they may be founduseful for short readings to the intelligent, though uneducated classes.

NOVEMBER 17, 1864.

We all of us enjoy a story of battle and adventure. Some of us delight in theanxiety and excitement with which we watch the various strange predicaments,hairbreadth escapes, and ingenious contrivances that are presented to us; andthe mere imaginary dread of the dangers thus depicted, stirs our feelings andmakes us feel eager and full of suspense.

This taste, though it is the first step above the dullness that cannot beinterested in anything beyond its own immediate world, nor care for what itneither sees, touches, tastes, nor puts to any present use, is still the lowestform that such a liking can take. It may be no better than a love of readingabout murders in the newspaper, just for the sake of a sort of startledsensation; and it is a taste that becomes unwholesome when it absolutelydelights in dwelling on horrors and cruelties for their own sake; or uponshifty, cunning, dishonest stratagems and devices. To learn to take interest inwhat is evil is always mischievous.

But there is an element in many of such scenes of woe and violence that maywell account for our interest in them. It is that which makes the eye gleam andthe heart throb, and bears us through the details of suffering, bloodshed, andeven barbarity--feeling our spirits moved and elevated by contemplating thecourage and endurance that they have called forth. Nay, such is the charm ofbrilliant valor, that we often are tempted to forget the injustice of the causethat may have called forth the actions that delight us. And this enthusiasm isoften united with the utmost tenderness of heart, the very appreciation ofsuffering only quickening the sense of the heroism that risked the utmost, tillthe young and ardent learn absolutely to look upon danger as an occasion forevincing the highest qualities.

'O Life, without thy chequer'd scene
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe,
Success and failure, could a ground
For magnanimity be found?'

The true cause of such enjoyment is perhaps an inherent consciousness thatthere is nothing so noble as forgetfulness of self. Therefore it is that we arestruck by hearing of the exposure of life and limb to the utmost peril, inoblivion, or recklessness of personal safety, in comparison with a higherobject.

That object is sometimes unworthy. In the lowest form of courage it is onlyavoidance of disgrace; but even fear of shame is better than mere love of bodilyease, and from that lowest motive the scale rises to the most noble and preciousactions of which human nature is capable--the truly golden and priceless deedsthat are the jewels of history, the salt of life.

And it is a chain of Golden Deeds that we seek to lay before our readers;but, ere entering upon them, perhaps we had better clearly understand what it isthat to our mind constitutes a Golden Deed.

It is not mere hardihood. There was plenty of hardihood in Pizarro when heled his men through terrible hardships to attack the empire of Peru, but he wasactuated by mere greediness for gain, and all the perils he so resolutelyendured could not make his courage admirable. It was nothing but insensibilityto danger, when set against the wealth and power that he coveted, and to whichhe sacrificed thousands of helpless Peruvians. Daring for the sake of plunderhas been found in every robber, every pirate, and too often in all the lowergrade of warriors, from the savage plunderer of a besieged town up to thereckless monarch making war to feed his own ambition.

There is a courage that breaks out in bravado, the exuberance of highspirits, delighting in defying peril for its own sake, not indeed producingdeeds which deserve to be called golden, but which, from their heedless grace,their desperation, and absence of all base motives--except perhaps vanity havean undeniable charm about them, even when we doubt the right of exposing a lifein mere gaiety of heart.

Such was the gallantry of the Spanish knight who, while Fernando and Isabel